Tucked away near Notre-Dame, The Shakespeare and Co is almost as famous for avid book readers as the cathedral. Michael’s joy is already palpable when he first spots the green facade, and I get to feel a little proud of myself. Not that I particularly care about Michael’s opinion, but I want him to know I am perfectly able to find the coolest places in the capital. Casually twirling my sunglasses between my fingers under the awning, I watch him pick up volumes from the heavy wooden crates with sparkling eyes. To top it all, the sun’s still out, bathing everything and everybody with its warmth.

“This is fantastic,” Michael says, caressing the spine of a musty travel guide.

I can’t help but laugh. I’ve never met anyone who enjoys anything the way he enjoys seeing books. “Wait until you go inside.”

I thought this day would never end. Three hours of maths this afternoon did nothing to help pass the time. Just because I'm naturally good at it doesn't mean I enjoy it. There was little else in my head other than meeting Michael after class, but I was nervous to get away from Tony and Lucie before they insisted to accompany us here. Having Tony in a bookstore is a synonym for disaster. Every title would mean something funny or dirty to him. Then Michael could congratulate himself thinking we’re cavemen, and I can’t allow that.

Once inside, and despite the swarm of tourists and locals haunting the tight spaces, Michael’s enthusiasm grows.

“This place looks straight out of a fairy tale.” With its crooked shelves and narrow aisles, its quirky decor and tiny reading nooks, the bookstore does have a magical aura.

“Fairy tales, huh?” I’ve read some, in my youth. Who’s illiterate now? And I enjoyed them too, not that anyone knows about it.

“So…” I say, running my fingers along nameless spines, “how do you like Paris so far?” Nice. Interested without being inquisitive. I should become a detective.

The corner of Michael’s mouth curls up. “I’ve been here before, on holidays, but it’s not the same.”

Noncommittal answer. Perhaps he doesn’t want me to get to know him. I earned this by insulting him on the first day. But all this aura of mystery only makes me want to prod until I get to the bottom of it.

A book catches his attention; he flicks it open and grows quiet. Meanwhile, I’m constantly being asked to move aside by impatient customers who are, for some mysterious reason, all interested in the Greek Mythology section behind me. When I finally get some peace, I try another angle.

“I see you’ve made friends already.”

Michael’s green eyes appear from the top of the book, an eyebrow quirked. “Hm?”

“You’ve got friends already — like Sacha.”

“Yes.” Sacha’s name brings a smile to his face. “They’re nice.”

I’m getting a little warm in here. Not big on tight places. I start fanning myself with a battered copy of Bel-Ami tossed on top of an overflowing crate.

“Excuse me.” Another patron makes heavy eye contact with me; I edge closer to Michael. “Sacha seems to like you a lot.”

Michael puts the book down. “Does she?”

Men. All the same, am I right? “Yeah, that’s obvious.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

Is that it? He’s good at keeping his true feelings out of sight, I’ll grant him that. A group of giggling teenagers too large for the narrow space forces its way through with substantial use of their elbows and shoulders. Michael and I find ourselves slammed against best-selling fantasy.

“It’s getting tight in here.” He doesn’t answer, turns around at the first opportunity and leaving me gasping for air. “You don’t like to talk, do you?” I ask, chasing after him.

Michael shrugs. “I like to talk. I just don’t have anyone to talk to.”

Another bombshell. If he’s looking for a career, may I suggest the Royal Air Force? I guess I had it coming; I asked. But who tells the truth without so much as a warning? I would never bare myself like this, confess I have no friends.

His neutral expression suggests he’s not doing it to get sympathy. I know a little about loneliness, and I don’t wish it on anyone. If Michael wanted to talk to me, I think I’d let him.

“You can talk to me if you like.” My tone was the perfect balance of kindness and camaraderie. Nothing improper. By the look Michael throws me over his shoulder, he’s understood my meaning.

“Thanks, Louis.”

A faint thump catches my attention; I’ve dropped my sunglasses. I retrieve them and put them back on. When I rise, I’m alone in the chattering crowd, and when I find Michael again after two wrong turns in this labyrinth, he’s laughing quietly in sheer, childish joy, drumming his fingers along the cover of an old book. He’s definitely strange, there’s no other way to put it. But I don’t really mind that much. He’s kind of easy to be around, at least.

We begin to explore the shop in a way I’ve never bothered to before. Michael points his favourite novels out to me as he sees them. Sometimes he stops, eyes glinting, in front of a rare edition of a volume he loves. His father, he tells me, teaches philosophy at a London College.

“Books are practically my best friends,” he says, with an affectionate sigh at the sight of the first French edition of Pride and Prejudice. He looks at me, cheeks pink, as though he just confessed being into hardcore porn or something. I pretend I’m looking elsewhere.

“I know Jane Austen.” I make a show of being absorbed by the letters on the cover of the manuscript. “My mum used to watch period dramas on TV, and I watched with her.”

“Did you?” I can tell Michael’s amused, but there’s no mockery in his face. He leans in and lowers his voice. “I still watch them, you know.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I can’t help laughing. That says a lot about him, Tony would say. But Tony’s not here, and that’s fine.

We move on to another shelf, then another. After a while, it occurs to me that I’m having fun. It’s strange, I didn’t expect any of it to happen, even less with a guy like him. Some classics I recognise and let him know all about it. It seems that Michael knows every book and every movie adaptation of it. Every time we pass a volume he loves, his eyes catch fire. He’s not an ugly guy, I can concede that. Nothing wrong with admitting it.

“I’ve never met anyone who knows so much about books.”

Michael seems embarrassed. “Well, I don’t have many things to do, I guess, so books are my thing.”

What’s my thing? Video games and weed? Kaiser Chiefs? Lucie? His passions are just as good as mine, if not better. I feel sorry I made fun of him now, but I don’t know how to say it.

“You know… I could use picking up a book once in a while.” Did he get my meaning? Can he hear how sorry I am? I don’t know. He turns his face away.

“And I could use a night out once in a while, you know.”

Perhaps he did get it, then. “I can help you with that.”

Crap, I spoke a little too fast. Michael, hanging out with Tony and Lucie and me? Neither Tony nor Michael would ever forgive me. A familiar heat warms my cheeks; Michael acts like he hasn’t noticed and plunges deeper into the aisle. We carry on walking from shelf to shelf for several more minutes in silence, then Michael stops in an unusually quiet, cosy-looking nook to admire a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I slump against the shelf next to him. This is the sort of place where sneaky lovers steal a kiss beneath the beams. Michael idly turns the pages of his new find while I pretend to read the titles on the nearest volumes.

He breaks the silence first. “What’s the story behind the sunglasses?”

“The story?”

“They never leave you. Even when it’s dark,” he adds, his tone teasing.

I remove them to better admire them and realise I’m still holding Bel-Ami.

“They’re important to me. They were a gift.”

“Who gifted them to you? Your girlfriend?”

I laugh quietly. “Lucie wouldn’t know which model to pick. She’d get me really crazy or girly ones, you know.” Michael doesn’t answer, turns around to peruse more books on the shelves. “Tony bought them for me. He found them at a flea market. Why? Do they bother you?”

“I never said that.” A moment of silence while he scratches the back of his neck. “Tony’s your friend, right? With the dark hair?”

“Yes.” I’m surprised he doesn’t remember Tony; everyone does. Tony leaves a strong impression, whether you like him or not. Usually the latter.

“You know, I think we’re in the right spot.” I nod toward the crooked “English Classics” sign above Michael’s head.

“How did you meet Tony, exactly?”

“Oh! This is a great story, actually.” I’m glad he asked. I enjoy talking about Tony. I think it’s the perfect opportunity, now that Michael is browsing the shelves, looking for his Dorian Gray.

“I’m all ears,” he says.

“Well…” I take a seat on the bench behind him. “It was when we started at Colette. The history teacher organised a school trip, a visit to the Louvres. I had decided to show up late — almost at the end — so I wouldn’t die of boredom. The teacher was confused because he could have sworn I wasn’t there when the group started the visit, and he wanted to tell my father about it.”

Michael turns around to flash me a smile. “You don’t like to play by the rules, do you?”

That’s right! My face grows hotter. “You could say that. Anyway, I told the teacher I was there all along, he simply didn’t notice me. Tony appeared out of nowhere, covered for me. He was really impressed by my lie.”

Michael nods thoughtfully. “Great story indeed…” I think he’s making fun of me. He is, isn’t he? “But it’s too bad you didn’t get to see the Louvres,” he adds. “It’s the first thing I did when I arrived.”

I shrug. “Tony says rockstars don’t go to museums.”

Michael slips me a curious glance. “Do you want to be a rockstar?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to be in a band, be a singer or a musician, play rock music and go on tours? That’s what I mean.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Our thing is more of an attitude, really. You don’t have to sing to be a rockstar, we think. It’s a whole philosophy. About, you know, being different, being… free.”

Michael turns to me, smiling. “‘Live. Live the wonderful life that is in you. Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing.’”

Why does this sound familiar and churns the gears of my stomach?